the sandcastle and the waves
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: "Usefulness be damned," she whispers, taking his chin in her hot fingers. "You are mine." The burn of her lips on his forehead makes him gasp. Twin streaks of heat slip down his cheeks, trembling at the bottom of his chin where her hand catches them. After this, he will live happily in her ear—a humble nail—for as many eternities as she will let him.


_Once, it was said: the strongest god of war would shed tears for a human._

* * *

"It would seem our lady is not without a certain sense of the macabre."

"What are you talking about…?"

"Our newest brother. Did you not hear the name she gave to him?"

She laughs at their innocent superstition. The name is not so much the issue, as the nail itself. She hardly admits to herself that she did hope for something that could prove a touch more formidable on the field…

But he is still so strong and bright, this new child of hers.

"I would like you to come with me," she tells him.

"R-really?" he stammers, fumbling the word out over a suddenly thick tongue. And then—"of course, my lady. I am happy to be of service in any—"

"No, Kazuma—not for your 'service.' I just want to talk to you."

He stares a hole into the ground. She wants to talk to him.

"I am sorry…if this is about anything I have done—or have not done well—I-I have been working with Touma—"

She just laughs, cutting him off. But the beauty of it…the clarity of any sound he has ever heard would have been crashing kitchenware in comparison. The kindness in it, too—

Her laughter makes him want to play the fool, if only to hear it again.

"Please do not worry so much, little one," she says, still laughing.

She takes only him with her.

Later, he learns that she does this with every new member of her family—and that no one is to warn them beforehand. It would ruin the spontaneity if they were able to prepare. He sees the logic in this. As a new, nervous shinki, he probably would have rehearsed a formal speech in anticipation of this talk.

She says: _"Chouki."_

In this form, he is equal parts shame and euphoria. He is a nail… _a nail…_ but he is with her. She is using him.

One brilliant flash later, she has taken them both to an unfamiliar place.

With a vision that supersedes his original sight, Kazuma takes in the landscape: brine-swept tide tugging sand toward its vastness in fluid, foaming shapes. There is nothing else in sight but sand and ocean. It is an environment of shift, and whirl, and endless, overwhelming solitude.

He still inhabits her ear, and keeps his thoughts silent.

"What do you think of your form, Chouki?" she asks, quietly.

 _"If it is a useful form to you, then I am satisfied with it."_

"And who told you to say that? Touma, perhaps?"

His thoughts asphyxiate to a halt.

 _"It is—the truth—"_

"You cannot keep me safe from your humanity. That is something you must come to terms with, _Kazuma_."

And he is beside her now—the shock on his face makes him feel naked before her. Even though it is just the two of them, he finds himself perversely wishing there were a crowd.

"I do not want to rob you of the experience of overcoming shame," she says, seriously. "That is one of the fundamental lessons of your existence."

Everything about his expression is a question—and he forgets for a moment, her intense divinity. There is something unbearably warm about her, even as her tone lectures him.

"I hope you know that by accomplishing such a thing, you are doing me a favor as much as you are making life easier for yourself," she continues, methodically—almost pragmatically.

"I have never been shy about the affection I hold for my shinki—but all of you have something in yourselves that I will always lack. Your shape may be prescribed, but how you use it is entirely your doing. Kazuma—I hear the discord in you. I hear your belief in your inadequacy—and I tell you that a broken shinki is more useful to me than one who regrets his form."

Heat floods him from the soles of his feet to his scalp, and to his unfettered horror, his eyes grow moist.

"No—I am sorry—I should have known—"

She takes a few steps toward him. His gaze rises no higher than the footprints of her approach. The dips left by her heels shallow out, leaving smooth sand.

"Usefulness be damned," she whispers, taking his chin in her hot fingers. "You are _mine._ "

The burn of her lips on his forehead makes him gasp. Twin streaks of heat slip down his cheeks, trembling at the bottom of his chin where her hand catches them.

After this, he will live happily in her ear—a humble nail—for as many eternities as she will let him.

* * *

 _It was said: the drops falling from the god's eyes would hang forever—stellate, above their dimmer brothers._

* * *

They are gone. They all—they were taken from her. _All her children—_

They are dead; they were screaming for her.

She would have loved them still, no matter how large and loathsome they became. They were still hers—

"Please," she rasps out—her throat is a hundred knives—"please leave them, they've done nothing wrong. They just wanted to protect me."

 _Oh gods. Please. I can't—the emptiness—_

Her whole skin is raw from the names—all of them, ripped from her like arrows from a slaughtered lion—

—she is so empty, an empty god, _an empty mother_ —

"I am here."

She is shivering, and burning, and withered black and ugly. She is alone, a broken, broken thing—whose children loved her and all died—

"I am here."

No. Her children's names—none are left, _none_. She hears…nothing…

"Please, look at me. I am here."

She breaks from it—that awful, drowning loneliness that had her in its mouth. She comes up coughing, heaving—spending her ruined insides onto whoever is holding her…

"My lady, here—let me."

Softness wraps around her, along with the warmth of another body. She reaches out with a feeble, clawing hand.

"Don't, please—don't leave me."

"I won't. I promise."

Her weak grip latches on—it fists in fabric, and underneath it, something warm beats. A life. She presses her knuckles to it, searching for its source.

"Alive, still…"

She is propped more securely against the firm body holding her, one arm circling her waist and cradling her aching head under his chin. His other hand—his right hand—finds hers. Her nails dig into him as she draws a rattling, tortured breath.

There is a name there.

"…Kazuma…?"

A sharp, focused light cuts through the chaotic silence in her. She still has one. She still has him.

And he is alive.

They are on the same coastline, walking together, when she tells him:

"You will be the last to bear the Ma name."

It does not surprise him. It surprises him more that she would take him to _this_ place—a place that was once her favorite. A place that, now, can only remind her of a horrific past.

"I understand."

She pauses, and he accidentally walks a few paces past her.

"Do you?"

He turns around, and sees her standing motionless. The only stir of movement comes from the salt-rough wind that tugs on her robe and her loose, pale hair. And when he meets her eyes, she stares past him—or not past him— _into_ him, into something deep that makes him feel, once again, naked.

She really is a god.

He allowed himself to forget that, for a time. He allowed himself to forget that she is ore and ocean and immortal—and he allowed himself to forget that he comes from blood and piss and death.

"As the last of them…you will have to be more than my guidepost. You will be more than my equal, Kazuma. You will be my accomplice."

The wind whistles in his ears, almost louder than her quiet voice.

"I will not give the name, 'Ma,' to any future shinki of mine. I will not saddle them with its weight. If you want me to unname you—to—release you from it as well—I will do so, without hesitation. You have… _more_ than fulfilled your duty to me."

"I have not."

He meets her steady gaze, trying to ignore the fact that he has just blatantly contradicted her. Her eyes widen.

"Kazuma—?"

"I have not done everything for you that I must. And so I will not allow you to unname me."

Her mouth opens—he holds up a hand. As though he'd let her _actually_ engage him in discussion over this…

"Besides," he says—and his face grows warm. "You said: I was yours."

Her face crumples, and she looks down at her feet. At that, he almost goes to her. He almost takes her in his arms—tells her that she should just kill him outright rather than release him from her.

But he does not approach her.

"So, you really want to stay?" she asks.

 _I have hurt for you._

"If you let me, I will stay with you forever."

 _I have murdered for you._

"You have seen my weakness, Kazuma."

 _I have broken for you._

"I have seen no weakness in you, my lady."

 _I have given you everything in me to give, and I would give it again, and again, and—_

Like the waves, she will always move on. And like the sand, he will mold to her direction.

* * *

 _It was said: the god would raise her mighty hand to the sun, and, closing her fingers around it, extinguish all the light in both worlds._

* * *

She will never forget how lonely it was. Hundreds of voices—hundreds of names—all of them sliced and hollowed out of her skin until she was left in dripping ribbons.

She will never let herself forget it, because her new children must never go through that hell.

And whenever she looks at _him_ , she sees how the part of him that was innocent and tentative has all been sanded away: a surf-smoothed rock.

He is her guidepost still…but with a slightly straighter spine, with a voice that holds as much authority as it does consideration.

Any secrets shared by the two of them should have forged a closer bond—but instead, she feels distance. He is afraid for her, and so he pushes the others forward, and himself back.

More so—now that they have begun rebuilding.

"Kazuma, stay."

He does not disobey her, but only insofar as he merely turns to face her. He refuses to approach.

And she realizes something.

 _"Chouki."_

She catches the briefest surprise on his face when he transforms, and the presence in her ear is different. Very, very different. The wavering glass of her hand mirror tells her exactly what has changed.

"Beautiful," she murmurs.

 _"I do not understand."_

"You are hafuri."

She marvels at the delicacy and the petaled precision of the earring.

He changed for her— _her,_ a ruined god, who brought her family so low as to necessitate the wasting blow of a magatsukami. He changed for her still.

Wetness springs so quickly to her eyes that she has to suck in a harsh breath.

 _"Are you all right?"_

She stares into the warped, imperfect reflection, and she nods.

"Oh. Yes."

He has become an expert in moderation.

The other shinki come to him for advice on everything. Even trivial matters—he has made it clear that _he_ is the one to be bothered, and not their beloved mistress. He has gained their trust, and their affection, and through his behavior routes it to its rightful source—

The god who has named them all, who has shared her strength with them at the expense of herself.

He has become an expert in moderation, because _somebody_ around here needs to.

"Another one?" he asks, and lets a thread of frustration escape him.

"Of course. I would not leave anyone to be corrupted."

"So I am aware."

"Is there an issue, Kazuma?"

"Only that of your welfare, my lady."

She gives him a sharp look, and he braces himself for rebuke. He has not stung her. He knows he is right.

To his surprise, she lets the entire matter slip.

"I do not think I have ever heard you say my name."

His jaw flaps open, and he snaps it shut immediately, before she can notice.

"Is that—I mean—of course I have said your name, Bishamon-sama—"

"No. Not like that."

Something in her voice—he has _—hurt her—_

Kazuma steps forward, panic and guilt clogging his throat.

"You know how precious a name is," she says, stopping him in his tracks. "You know that, as well as I do. I use yours so often, it is nearly as familiar as my own…more familiar, even."

The name on his hand burns him. It burns, and he is still choking on something tough.

"I cannot help but envy…no. It is not worth it. Forgive me, Kazuma."

If there were a nearby cliff, he would throw himself off it, if only to purge that horrible longing from her voice—if only to rid himself of this deep ache—

 _"_ Vi—Viina," he tries.

It comes to him from…somewhere. Maybe the syllables are nonsense. But they are lovely, and they fit her. She looks at him.

"It is a—a special name," he explains, pinching his knuckles until they sting. "If that is all right."

She is still looking at him, and he wonders if there might be a chance he could get to that cliff fast enough—

"It is perfect."

Her expression is curious—analytical. Her lips mouth the two syllables a few times before giving them voice.

"Viina. Call me that."

* * *

 _And it was said: the god would proclaim, "If my light has gone out, the rest of you must live in darkness as well."_


End file.
